Turn the radio up

I very much dig driving by myself.  I dig sunny days and cruise control.  And I definitely dig blasting the music as LOUDLY as I want.  Darn it.

A couple of weeks ago, I pulled my little fuel efficient car into a gas station with jammin' DMB rocking my insular driver's seat.  It's one thing to bop your way down the highway, but it's quite another to have the elderly folk casting furtive glances your way. 

There's nothing about your car that says "young 20-something," so turn it down, already!  I'm trying to pump my $75 worth of gas over here, you mid-life crisis woman, you!

At least that's what I imagine an old, crotchety dude would say.

Regardless of gas station etiquette, I say "Jam on, my friends!  Find some groovy tunes and drive!"

(I also say find some good coffee to take along for that journey, but to each her own, right?)

This I know: I will jam to my music all rock concert style at a stoplight, and I don't care anymore.  I invite you to join me in my jams, soccer mom in the mini van.  Please, sing along, real estate agent guy in the white Nissan sedan.  It's alllll good. 

By the way, I also say "Three cheers to the boy who always steps up for girl wrangling, even when one comes down unexpectedly with a high temp and tear-inducing case of the crummies at the end of a long work week while I keep my date elsewhere.  Props to you."

Jam on.